the unappeasable foe was the only mourner for the dead. He expressed
a purpose of being buried side by side with his enemy.

"I doubt whether their dust will mingle," remarked the old sculptor to
me; for often there was an earthliness in his conceptions.

"O yes," replied I, who had mused long upon the incident; "and when
they rise again, these bitter foes may find themselves dear friends.
Methinks what they mistook for hatred was but love under a mask."

A gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a memorial for an
Indian of Chabbiquidick, one of the few of untainted blood remaining
in that region, and said to be an hereditary chieftain, descended from
the sachem who welcomed Governor Mayhew to the Vineyard. Mr.
Wigglesworth exerted his best skill to carve a broken bow and
scattered sheaf of arrows, in memory of the hunters and warriors whose
race was ended here; but he likewise sculptured a cherub, to denote
that the poor Indian had shared the Christian's hope of immortality.

"Why," observed I, taking a perverse view of the winged boy and the
bow and arrows, "it looks more like Cupid's tomb than an Indian
chief's!"

"You talk nonsense," said the sculptor, with the offended pride of
art; he then added, with his usual goodnature, "How can Cupid die
when there are such pretty maidens in the Vineyard?"

"Very true," answered I; and for the rest of the day I thought of
other matters than tombstones.